Tower of Dawn
“More valuable than gold.”
“It begs the question of why Adarlan’s last king …” She almost said your king, but the word clanged strangely in her head now. “Why he felt the need to destroy those of us with the gift in his own continent.” Why the thing in him felt the need, she didn’t say.
Chaol didn’t meet her eyes. And not from shame.
He knew something. Something else.
“What?” she asked.
He scanned the dim stacks, then listened for anyone nearby. “He was indeed … taken. Invaded.”
It had been a shock to realize whose dark power she’d been fighting against within his wound—a shock, and yet a rallying cry to her magic. As if some fog had been cleared away, some veil of fear, and all that had been left beneath were her blinding rage and sorrow, unfaltering as she’d leaped upon the darkness. But … the king truly had been possessed, then. All this time.
Chaol pulled a book from the shelf and flipped through it, not really reading the pages. She was fairly certain he didn’t know how to read Eyllwe. “He knew what was happening to him. The man within him fought against it as best he could. He knew that their kind …” The Valg. “They found people with gifts … enticing.” Magic-wielders. “Knew their kind wanted to conquer the gifted ones. For their power.”
Infest them, as the king had been. As that drawing in The Song of Beginning had depicted.
Yrene’s gut roiled.
“So the man within wrested control long enough to give the order that the magic-wielders were to be put down. Executed, rather than used against him. Us.”
Turned into hosts for those demons and made into weapons.
Yrene leaned against the stack behind them, a hand sliding up to her throat. Her pulse pounded beneath her fingers.
“It was a choice he hated himself for. But saw as a necessary decision to make. Along with a way to make sure those in control could not use magic. Or find those who had it. Not without lists of them. Or those willing to sell them out for coin—to the men he ordered to hunt them down.”
Magic’s vanishing had not been natural at all. “He—he found a way to banish—?”
A sharp nod. “It is a long story, but he halted it. Dammed it up. To keep those conquerors from having the hosts they wanted. And then hunted the rest of them down to make sure their numbers were fewer still.”
The King of Adarlan had stopped magic, killed its bearers, had sent his forces to execute her mother and countless others … not just from blind hatred and ignorance, but some twisted way of trying to save their kind?
Her heart thundered through her body. “But healers—we have no power to use in battle. Nothing beyond what you see from me.”
Chaol was utterly still as he stared at her. “I think you might have something they want very badly.”
The hair along her arms rose.
“Or want to keep you from knowing too much about.”
She swallowed, feeling the blood leave her face. “Like—your wound.”
A nod.
She blew out a shaky breath, going to the stack before her. The scrolls.
His fingers grazed her own. “I will not let any harm come to you.”
Yrene felt him waiting for her to tell him otherwise. But she believed him.
“And what I showed you earlier?” she said, inclining her head to the scrolls. The Wyrdmarks, he’d called them.
“Part of the same thing. An earlier and different sort of power. Outside of magic.”
And he had a friend who could read them. Wield them.
“We’d better be quick,” she said, still careful of any potential listeners. “I’m sure the volume I need for your chronic toe fungus is down here somewhere, and I’m growing hungry.”
Chaol gave her an incredulous look. She offered him an apologetic wince in return.
But laughter danced in his eyes as he began pulling books into his lap.
Nesryn’s face and ears were numb with cold by the time Kadara alighted on a rocky outcropping high atop a small mountain range of gray stone. Her limbs were hardly better, despite the leathers, and were sore enough that she winced as Sartaq helped her down.
The prince grimaced. “I forgot that you aren’t used to riding for so long.”
It wasn’t the stiffness that really brutalized her, but her bladder—
Clenching her legs together, Nesryn surveyed the campsite the ruk had deemed suitable for her master. It was protected on three sides by boulders and pillars of gray rock, with a broad overhang against the elements, but no possibility of concealment. And asking a prince where to see to her needs—
Sartaq merely pointed to a cluster of boulders. “There’s privacy that way, if you need it.”
Face heating, Nesryn nodded, not quite able to meet him in the eye as she hurried to where he’d indicated, slipping between two boulders to find another little outcropping that opened onto a sheer drop to the unforgiving rocks and streams far, far below. She picked a small boulder that faced away from the wind and didn’t waste any time unbuckling her pants.
When she emerged again, still wincing, Sartaq had removed most of the packs from Kadara, but had left her saddle. Nesryn approached the mighty bird, who eyed her closely, lifting a hand toward the first buckle—
“Don’t,” Sartaq said calmly from where he’d set the last of the packs under the overhang, his sulde tucked against the wall behind them. “We leave the saddles on while we travel.”
Nesryn lowered her hand, examining the mighty bird. “Why?”
Sartaq removed two bedrolls and laid them out against the rocky wall, claiming one for himself. “If we’re ambushed, if there is some danger, we need to be able to get into the skies.”
Nesryn scanned the surrounding mountain range, the sky stained pink and orange as the sun set. The Asimil Mountains—a small, lonely range, if her memory of the land served her correctly. Still far, far north from the Tavan Mountains of the rukhin. They hadn’t passed a village or sign of civilization in over an hour, and up amongst these desolate peaks: landslides, flash floods … She supposed there were dangers aplenty.
Supposed that the only ones who could reach them up here were other ruks. Or wyverns.
Sartaq pulled out tins of cured meats and fruit, along with two small loaves of bread. “Have you seen them—the mounts of Morath?” His question was nearly ripped away by the howl of the wind beyond the wall of rocks. How he’d known where her mind had drifted, she couldn’t guess.
Kadara settled herself near one of the three faces, folding in her wings tightly. They’d stopped once earlier—to let Kadara feed and for them to see to their needs—so the ruk wouldn’t have to seek out dinner in these barren mountains. Belly still full, Kadara now seemed content to doze.
“Yes,” Nesryn admitted, tugging free the leather strap around the base of her short braid and finger-combing her hair. Tangles snared on her still-freezing fingers as she coaxed them away, grateful that the task kept her from shuddering at the memory of the witches and their mounts. “Kadara is probably two-thirds to half the size of a wyvern. Maybe. Is she large or small, for a ruk?”
“I thought you’d heard all the stories about me.”
Nesryn snorted, shaking out her hair a final time as she approached the bedroll and food he’d laid out for her. “Do you know they call you the Winged Prince?”
A ghost of a smile. “Yes.”
“Do you like the title?” She settled on the roll, crossing her legs beneath her.
Sartaq passed her the tin of fruits, beckoning her to eat. She didn’t bother to wait for him before she dug in, the grapes cool thanks to the hours in the crisp air.
“Do I like the title?” he mused, tearing off a piece of bread and passing it to her. She took it with a nod of thanks. “It’s strange, I suppose. To become a story while you are still alive.” A sidelong glance at her while he ripped into his bread. “You yourself are surrounded by some living tales. How do they feel about it?”
“Aelin certainly enjoys it.” She’d never met another person with so many names and titles—and who enjoyed bandying them about so much. “The others … I don’t suppose I know them well enough to guess. Though Aedion Ashryver … he takes after Aelin.” She popped another grape into her mouth, her hair swaying as she leaned forward to pluck a few more into her palm. “They’re cousins, but act more like siblings.”